


a matched set

by bogliasco



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 15:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19112260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogliasco/pseuds/bogliasco
Summary: “Strip,” she said, and he did. “Stand,” she said, and he did, hands crossed at the small of his back. “Touch your cock but don’t come,” she said, and his head shot up in surprise. Her commands had always been humiliating, but this was a line they had never crossed. She looked back at him coolly. “You heard what I said.”





	a matched set

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pride](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18896443) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



> Warnings: dubcon just due to dom/sub AU mechanics, underage non-sexual dom/sub interactions

There was no set age for the marks manifesting. The rumored youngest had been a Wildling child, seven and commanding her family in the hunts. The oldest were of the Targaryen line, their pale skin unblemished until twenty, thirty, even forty years. “We lead because we can, not because our skin says we should,” went the Targaryen motto, and no one dared argue with their dragons or their ways.

 

Jaime’s mark burned itself onto his right hip at the ripe age of sixteen. Cersei had been in the room with him, playing a war campaign on the cold ground, eating up his knights with glee. He had fallen to the tile writhing for what felt like an eternity, before the itching faded and he pulled down his trousers unceremoniously to see-

 

“Oh gods,” Cersei said quietly, looking at the telltale mark. Two hands, bound together, facing upwards in supplication, fading back into unraised skin at the wrists. A submissive. Jaime didn’t react, the phantom pain of the mark still fresh in his mind. He moved to touch it, and Cersei slapped his hand away.

 

“You know what this means,” she said. Jaime nodded numbly. Tywin was many things, but soft was not one of them. He loved Jaime, but only as much was needed to keep him alive to produce heirs. A firstborn son was valuable, but not valuable enough to offset the political humiliation of a submissive firstborn son. There would be no rumors spread, only a quiet accident where Jaime’s body would never be found, and Cersei would become a broodmare for some other royal, and Tyrion would sit at Tywin’s left side. 

 

Jaime was already resigning himself to a watery grave, but Cersei slapped him. The sting brought him back to the room, to where he had just received his death sentence.

 

“You will not die from this,” Cersei said, and even though she was just as young, Jaime knew she was smarter in this way. He had cruised to this age, laughing and playing and swordfighting, while Cersei had been locked in various rooms learning to speak and smile and flutter her eyelashes. And yet, she knew more about armies than he did, and more about the castle’s heartbeat, and more about just about anything important. This was the most important thing she’d ever known more about, and he was willing to do anything to stay alive.

 

“How?” he asked, and she stared at him, almost derisively, before rolling up the sleeve of her gown, up and up and up until it showed-

  
  


“How long?” Jaime breathed, reaching out before jerking back abortively. He wasn’t sure what he was asking. How long had that mark been there, those two hands, reaching down, wrists free of rope, strong and sure? How long had she kept this from him? From Tywin? How long had she been hiding this from her simpering friends and her embroidery tutor and him? 

 

“Since I was twelve,” she said. And there was nothing left to say then, was there? Jaime was sixteen and submissive, and Cersei had been a domme since twelve, trapped in the body of a royal who would never be allowed to rule.

 

\-----

 

They came to an arrangement. Every afternoon they would head up to their chambers, acting as all youth did, and their tutors let them scamper along. Cersei deadbolted her door, and by the time she turned around, Jaime would already be kneeling, palms up on his thighs, head down.

 

Cersei only grew crueler, as she was finally allowed to  _ be _ . In court, she had to be the demure daughter, ready to marry off to any pig who owned enough land to matter, ready to roll over and swell up with child. In here, she was the one with the domme mark, smarter and meaner and more hateful. What she could never command of the leering men in court, she could command of Jaime.

 

“Lick the ground,” she said quietly, and he tried to resist. “ _ I said- _ ” and her voice echoed with tones not entirely sixteen years old, and Jaime found himself lapping at the stone pitifully, something like a sob welling up. 

 

“Pathetic,” she said. “You’re supposed to be learning to resist, so you can pretend for one minute on a battlefield that you’re not a peasant sub.” Jaime could only keep licking, tasting dirt on his tongue. She strode over, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lean closer or flinch away.

 

She stopped before him. “It’s not entirely your fault though, is it?” she crooned, her boot under his chin, lifting his head up. He kept his mouth open and tongue out, even though he could feel drool starting down his chin. “It must feel so good to obey, just as good as it feels for me to watch you act like a dog, I imagine.” She let his head fall back to the ground. He was panting with exertion, even though he hadn’t moved.

 

And so it went for two years, and never did he find the strength to completely disobey. Sometimes he thought Cersei wanted him to fail. She would tell him to lick her boots, and he would only kiss them, and then she would rain torrents of cruel knife-like words, until his inner sub was cowering from the pain of disappointing a domme. And when she left, her boots would be shiny clean, and Jaime would be retching into his washbasin, trying to pretend he wasn’t loose and satisfied.

 

The day before his eighteenth birthday, Cersei had the fire roaring. There was a metal rod before her, etched with the dominant mark. He knew it was coming. To not manifest by adulthood would be suspicious, and Tywin wasn’t above having a physician tie Jaime down to investigate. The only way was to trick everyone into believing a brand scar was a mark.

 

“Don’t worry, dear brother, there will be no witnesses. The blacksmith I received this from is already rotting, as is the physician, and the royal guard who escorted me.” Jaime hadn’t even thought about those middlemen, and he would bet his life that Cersei hadn’t expected him to know. She was telling him so he could be more aware of the divide between them, just how useless he was in comparison.

 

“I’ve already told Tywin we’re traveling to lower town for market season,” Cersei said, watching the brand turn cherry red. Jaime was kneeling, too close to the fire to be comfortable, but Cersei had said so. Sweat was stinging his eyes, but he couldn’t move to wipe them. “He’s expecting us back in two days, but the salve I received should have us healed by then.” She turned the brand again, like it was a spit. He blinked rapidly. 

 

“Us?” he managed to croak out, against her directive to be silent, and she turned to look at him with a mixture of pride and disgust. The following slap felt almost perfunctory. “Once I’m done with yours, you’ll have to mark me as submissive. It’ll be poetic. The Lannister twins, a matched set, coming into their destinies on the same day.” She smiled, all teeth, eyes cold. Although she wouldn’t have died immediately for her mark, she would be punished. No sane or kind man would take a domme for a wife, and her only options would be the cruel and deranged. She would likely produce three children before being beaten to death one night, in a fit of dom-versus-dom rage. A poetic ending for both true Lannister twins, indeed.

 

The rest was a blur. He extended his left arm, like Cersei told him to, and watched as the glowing metal grew closer to the back of his hand. She stopped, a few inches away. “Scream for me,” she said, and then pressed down. He obeyed.

 

\-----

 

They went into court, a few weeks later, marks healed and pale. Tywin smiled at them both, the closest he’d ever gotten to joy. The feasts lasted for a week and a day, and by the end of them, Jaime was nearly jittery, every grating word feeling like an order, shaking with the need to fall to his knees.

 

“Come,” Cersei said, and they made their final rounds, waving at all those minor nobles whose pride needed to be sated, before pretending to head up to sleep. They barely made it into the chambers before Jaime had fallen with a thunk, the pain barely registering. “Please,” he said, and he had never begged without being ordered to before.

 

There was something different about Cersei and the way she circled him tonight, silent, not giving him the satisfaction of having obeyed an order. “Brother,” she said, and there was anger there. The feasts, celebrating Jaime, must have been torture. Her mark was visible right over her collarbone, so courtiers could gaze upon her weakness and her bosom and appreciate them as one. And gaze they had, for each night there had been pheasants on the tables. Cersei was strong and smart, so she had not gazed back, but instead fixed her eyes downwards. She was good at hiding her anger, but here there was no hiding. She was furious.

 

“Strip,” she said, and he did. “Stand,” she said, and he did, hands crossed at the small of his back. “Touch your cock but don’t come,” she said, and his head shot up in surprise. Her commands had always been humiliating, but this was a line they had never crossed. She looked back at him coolly. “You heard what I said.”

 

His hands were trembling, he found, as he uncrossed them and brought his right one forward. “No,” she said, “the other one.” His left hand, with the mark, and he watched it wrap around his soft cock and give a dry jerk. It hurt, friction and anxiety burning dry, but Cersei watched silently and so he did again. Slow at first, but then hard and fast as his body reacted to sensation, and soon he was panting, letting go right as he felt his thighs tighten.

 

There were no words for minutes upon minutes, and although he couldn’t quite relax enough for his mind to wander away from the situation, soon his cock was softening and he felt his muscles unwind, one by one.

 

“Again,” she said. This time he put up less resistance, just brought his left hand forward again and went for it. Maybe he could make himself accidentally come, get it over with, escape the room and figure out how to stop his  _ sister _ . But her commands rang strong, and his hand stopped without his input, and he watched hypnotically as a bead of liquid welled at the tip and dropped to the floor.

 

And so on and on it went, Cersei looking almost bored. Jaime shook off the thought that maybe that was the worst part, as his cock grew hard faster every time, and his thighs burned with effort, and his cheeks grew red. Finally, the seventh time, he whined quietly.

 

“Tell me you want this, and I’ll let you come,” Cersei said. There was no push behind the command, and Jaime was suddenly overwhelmingly angry. This was one of her mind games. He knew now what she wanted. She wanted him to be the final push off the edge into dishonor, complicit in his own debasement. There would be no push from her, and if one day he dared regret what they had become, these corrupted twins with no happy endings, she would command him to remember this. His aching cock. Her bored disinvolvement. His open mouth, ready to beg.

 

He would play her game, then, and he would beat her. For once, he would be smarter than Cersei. He would play her game, and enjoy it, and never once look back at the man he might’ve been, if he hadn’t fallen into bed with his sister. And when she came to her senses, five, ten, twenty years from now, and realized the monster she’d become when her brother’s seed had entered her womb, he would smile at her, buried deep, and she would remember that she had started their fall. Would they have ever become this twisted in a world where she didn’t have this power? He tried to imagine the two of them, fair-haired and not happy, exactly, but safe, becoming these scarred monsters, and couldn’t. But that world wasn’t this one.

 

“Please,” he said, voice rough and almost purring, and saw Cersei’s eyes widen for one beautiful moment before she said, “Come then.” And he did.


End file.
